


Comfort

by jawsandbones



Series: Ficlits [12]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Catharsis, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-09-22 14:17:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17061338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jawsandbones/pseuds/jawsandbones
Summary: Both Zevran and Mahariel have ghosts in their pasts. They help each other.---She cups his face, and his hands find her arms. She ghosts the softest kiss against one cheek, and against the other. Never breaking the gaze, pressing the kiss to his lips. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” she says.“It’s not your fault,” he says.“Not yours, either,” she tells him, brushing away the tears that roll down his cheeks, wiping away the specks of Taliesen’s blood.





	Comfort

The song moves in his head like a swarm of bees. Burning, buzzing, and commanding him to go. Vision darkened, steps unsteady. The song tells him where to put his feet. Head bowed, moving as a shell. Side by side with shrieks, the husks of them, bile drooling from between pointed teeth. They move as a pack, silently through the woods. They stand at the edge of the clearing together, breathing in the darkness, look at the dying embers of the fire. The shrieks move first, as the song directs. They emerge from their tents at the sound of their cries, barefoot and unawares. He waits. His vision brightens, the song becomes clear. He is a darkspawn. He is meant to kill.

He moves forward, in the long grass, past the rows of tents. Watching as they fight, but he is meant for only one. His fingers locked around the dagger in his hand, knuckles white with his burden. The shrieks scream as they fall, but he is meant for only one. When he sees her, the song falters. Some part of himself, which he has forgotten, calls her name. Noya stands, shield in her left hand and spear in her right, with blood upon her cheek. Staring at him, and he calls her “ _vhenan_.” The others crowd around him, but he is meant for only one.

“Tamlen,” she says, and for a moment, the song is silenced.

\---

She wraps her hands around the headboard, fingertips digging into the wood. Arms outstretched, her head hangs, hair like a veil around her face. Her knees dig into the cheap mattress, and he rubs a hand over the curve of her, presses his lips to her spine. It isn’t simply pleasure. It’s catharsis. Relief and release, one and the same, thoughts emptied but for the hands on her body. He wraps an arm around her, pulls her towards him. Her back against his chest and she lets her head tilt, staring at the ceiling. Teeth at the soft flesh of her shoulder, and his hands move over her throat.

They rut together in silence, save for the creak of the bed, the sound of rain against the window. The inn is the best they could do in short notice, far too dangerous to simply remain in camp. There might have been more darkspawn waiting for them in the woods. Zevran traces a gentle hand down her neck, her chest, and moves his palm over her breast. She reaches back, threading fingers through his hair. Listening to him breathe, the steady creak, the beat of her heart. Closing her eyes once again, feeling the way he thrusts up inside of her, the patient kiss against her cheek.

He asked no questions on the way to the inn. They were all still in their sleeping clothes, loose tunics and leggings, bare feet and weapons in their hands. Bedraggled and bloodshot, a sorry group. Zevran had taken her hand, held it quietly. Even when they were alone in their room, he had not questioned her. Instead, he had raised her hand to his lips, asked Noya what she needed. To feel something, anything, different. He had smiled so softly. Opening her eyes, a hand against his cheek. Turning her face to his, tasting the mint on his tongue.

After, he brings a wet towel. She sits on the bed, cross legged, and he sits beside her. Wiping the darkspawn blood from her cheek, the dirt from her feet. She leans against him, her head on his shoulder, as fingertips trace the tattoos on his back. “That ghoul was Tamlen. The one I told you about,” she says, “the one who touched the mirror with me.” Zevran listens, a hand on her knee, thumb moving in slow circles. “When we found the cave, I didn’t even protest. I wanted us to explore it, to go back to the Keeper with our findings. I knew there was something off about it, but I didn’t – I didn’t raise one concern.”

“I never told him we should turn back. I never told him not to touch the mirror. I kept, I kept asking him what he saw in it and he moved so _close_ ,” she says, rubbing her face. “Then he was just gone and no one knew what happened to him. Until now, I suppose.” She sighs as she falls backwards. Legs hanging off one side of the bed, hands linked over her belly. Zevran lies on his side beside her, one of his legs over hers, his head propped up on his hand. The other moves lightly over her arms, circles her knuckles, the space between her breasts. She turns to look at him.

“If I had stopped him. If I had insisted that we go back to the Keeper. Then, we might never have been tainted. I would never have joined the Wardens. If someone offered me a chance to go back, to re-do what’s been done, I wouldn’t take it.” She reaches upwards, tucks a stray lock of hair behind his ear. They never talk, about what they might mean to each other.

“I am sorry about Tamlen,” Zevran says, “but I am also glad that you are a Warden.” They exchange idle words, the edges of what it all could mean. Her hand at his neck, pulling his face down to hers.

 

* * *

 

Leaning against the now closed door, watching as he carefully places his daggers on the table. Palms against the wood, and her eyes follow him as he walks across the room. “You have been awfully quiet. You should be celebrating, hmm?” He says, grinning cheerfully at her, hands on his hips as he rocks back and forth on his feet. There’s blood still spattered on his tunic, on his face, on his hands. She remains utterly neutral, and he shrugs his shoulders. “Suit yourself, but I think I will try this wine Eamon has given us.” It’s only now that she moves.

Putting her hand over his as he reaches for the bottle, and fingers intertwine. He’s still so bright as he looks at her, as she puts a hand on his shoulder. Raising the other to the nape of him, fingertips at the soft wisps of hair that curl there. “Zevran,” she says, “there’s no one else here. It’s just me.”

“My Warden, I do not know –”

“I’m no Crow. You have nothing to fear from me.” His smile falters, and there’s a barely noticeable stitch between his brows. So close and he can’t hide it, not from her. He doesn’t think he wants to, not anymore, but he’s been lying for so long. “Zevran, Zevran, Zevran,” she murmurs, her fingers moving in soft circles against the back of his neck. The others might not believe if he told them how affectionate she truly is. All the secret things they keep for each other.

She cups his face, and his hands find her arms. She ghosts the softest kiss against one cheek, and against the other. Never breaking the gaze, pressing the kiss to his lips. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” she says.

“It’s not your fault,” he says.

“Not yours, either,” she tells him, brushing away the tears that roll down his cheeks, wiping away the specks of Taliesen’s blood. He holds her so tightly, fingertips bruising into flesh. She tucks stray locks of hair behind his ear, puts an arm around his shoulders. Pulling him down, pulling him close, and his arms slowly wrap around her waist. Locking there, holding tightly, his face buried in the crook of her neck as he trembles.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


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